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Coming of Age: A Loric Talarius Story
The young swordsman circled his opponent with weapon drawn and eyes analyzing the man's sluggish, but certain, movements. The hulking man, easily half a foot taller, gripped his weapon tight, causing the swordsman to squeeze his own. The man let out a roar as he lunged forward, bringing the sword down in a straight, powerful arc. Twenty-one-year-old Loric Talarius darted to the side as the wooden bokken ripped at the air where he was just standing. The oponent, a fellow student named Otis Ranclaw, made a sideswipe at Loric's upper-body, only to find that space empty, too. Loric, in a crouch, sprung upwards with his sword extended. The tip struck Otis' chin and sent him reeling back. "Enough," Elder Taros growled. The fifty-year-old master of the Silver Bulls was built, fittingly enough, like an ox. Age had taken the hair from his head, but a white mane still hung from his chin, braided into two separate pieces that resembled the horns of a bull. Loric lowered the wooden sword, and Otis mirrored him, mumbling a curse beneath his breath and rubbing his chin. The two turned to each other, bowed, and stepped outside the ring. Otis leered hard at Loric, who pretended not to notice. He was used to it. "The victor is Talarius," Taros said. "Approach." Loric replaced the bokken into his belt an walked passed the dozen or so students. The young man was a great deal smaller than the rest, but still walked with an air of confidence. His hair was brown and almost completely shaved, his eyes grey and neutral. He knelt in front of the aging master. Taros bent down and slapped Loric hard across the chin with the back of his hand. The young Ko-Sai -in-training fell back onto his side, jaw screaming in pain and calm demeanor breaking. He looked up at his master in shock. "Victory is pointless if you gain nothing, Talarius." The old Silver Bull master spit off to the side. "Once again, you've made a mockery of my teachings." He raised his arms to the silver bull-head statue that hung on the wall and leered over the room. "Of our teachings." "But Master, I--" "But nothing," Taros growled. "You prance around like a chimp when you fight, never taking the style of the Silver Bull to heart." He walked to the center of the ring and pulled his katana from its sheathe, the blade gleaming in the pale light of the dojo, and held it above his head with both hands. "The Bull does not dodge. Others flee." Taros brought the blade down at a speed that made the air whistle. "The Bull does not slow. Its foes are trampled underneath." He made an upward diagonal slash that made some of the less disciplined students wince. "The Bull does not fear." Taros re-sheathed his blade. "The Bull is feared." Loric pulled himself off the floor and turned to Taros, inclining his head into a bow. "Forgive me, Master. I will try harder." Taros narrowed his eyes at him. "See that you do. Both you and Otis will remain here. The rest of you are dismissed." With a wave, he had the group of students filing out of the dojo, probably to their evening meals. Both Loric and Otis knelt before their teacher. "Do you know why I had the two of you fight today?" Taros asked the pair. "No, Master," they said, almost in unison. "Rise, both of you," he said, and waited until both were making eye contact with him to continue. "I picked the two of you because you have both been chosen for the Rite in one week's time." The strength in Loric's legs suddenly disappeared, and it took all of his will not to sink back down to his knees. The Rite was the first mission of a Ko-Sai of the Silver Bulls. If the Masters decide the candidates have done an adequate job, they become full-fledged Ko-Sai. Otis seemed not to react, other than the thin line his mouth was pressed into. "I am ready, Master." He was a half-foot taller than Loric, with dark-brown eyes and heavily muscled build. Then again, every Ko-Sai in the Silver Bulls was heavily muscled, save Loric. "So it would seem. Talarius?" Loric remained silent for a few seconds. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Master. You've made it abundantly clear that you do not condone my style of swordsmanship. Why would you allow me to take the Rite?" The elder grunted. "Very true, Talarius. However, we elders have decided that, despite your unique fighting style, you are of age and should be given the same opportunity as everyone else." A dark smile spread across his face. "Besides, maybe some real-world experience would do you good." One Week Later The air around the Talarius household seemed different today. Loric sat beneath the yew tree in the front yard, listening to the calls of birds off in the distance. The cool shade of the tree was his favorite resting place, as it offered an ideal view of the falcon that flew down from its nest on a small nearby mountain to hunt for mice in fields outside of Silver City. It was slightly less comfortable while wearing the armor of the Silver Bulls, though. Today was the day that Loric was to leave on his Rite. He’d worn the armor before, and carried a katana and wakizashi, but none had felt as heavy as they did that day. Today, his future was weighing down on him. It was crushing. The silence was broken by a soft voice from the other side of the trunk. “Dreaming you could fly again, Loric?” Simara, his younger sister by two years, sat as her brother did, back to the bark and head to the sky. She was a couple of inches shorter than him, with tan skin and flowing amber hair that went down to her lower back. “No, just enjoying the peace,” he somehow managed to verbalize over a yawn. “While it lasts.” “Shouldn’t you be leaving? The Rite isn’t something to be late for.” “I still have a few minutes.” “What are they making you do?” Simara asked. “For your mission, I mean.” Loric had not been home much recently, opting to spend most of his time outside, training with his cumbersome steel swords and armor. His family was left slightly neglected. Loric sighed, pulled himself to his feet and slid his katana and wakizashi into his belt, sheathes clanking against his silver armor. “We’re to catch a group of thieves outside of the city and bring them back to face justice.” “What did they steal?” “A small statuette of some northern deity. It’s solid gold and worth a fortune, apparently.” Loric sighed. “Some art collector on the top tier is pretty anxious to have it back.” “Will it be dangerous?” Simara asked as she stood. “How many are there?” “Just three. None of them are supposed to be too tough, though the leader is wanted for a couple of murders, too.” His sister remained quiet, but her expression was troubled. “Be safe,” she said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. She hugged her older brother, an embrace both gentle and intense: the kind only family can give. The dirt road was particularly dusty today, since the last rain came over a month ago. “Don’t drag your feet,” Loric said. “You’re kicking up the dirt.” “This is going to be a long trip if you keep complaining so much,” Otis replied. The larger of the two walked with his arms folded across his chest. He was a quiet person, more or less. Loric always assumed that meant he was the same as his other peers: a meathead more worried about his biceps than his brain. “Fine, fine. Let’s talk assignment. We know the thieves are hiding somewhere in the forest. The question is, where?” “I have a thought on that. They’ve been hiding in there for two weeks, as far as we know. What’s the one thing we know they’ll need?” Loric thought quietly for a moment. “Water.” “The only water in the forest is the river,” Otis continued. “Seeing that it hasn’t rained in a while, I’m willing to bet we’ll find their camp somewhere near it.” Loric considered this and snorted. “That’s actually a good idea.” “You don’t have to sound so surprised.” He wore an irritated smile. “I just never knew another Silver Bull to have much in the way of brain-power.” Otis chuckled. “Perhaps if you stopped sulking like a child all the time, you’d know a lot more.” The wind blew and Loric gave in to the smile that he was trying to hold back. “Maybe you’re right. Anyway, I think I have a good idea of where they are.” “Oh?” “The river runs past that mountain,” Loric said, pointing to the home of the falcon. “There are several caves in that mountain, ideal for hiding out.” The two had arrived at the tree line to the forest. The trees were not too tall, but they got progressively bigger deeper into the woods. “Follow me.” It only took about an hour of trekking the dry soil of the forest before the pair of Ko-Sai reached the mountain. The river was running steadily around the bed, and Loric knew from playing there as a kid that it was deeper than it looked and filled with plenty of hazards, like sharp rocks and tree roots that can snag the limb of an unwary swimmer. Loric bent down and sipped water from his cupped hands, exhausted from the walk that he normally found enjoyable. He still was not used to his hefty armor. The forest itself was less dangerous. Save for the occasional bear or mountain lion, people generally had little to worry about during calm weather. The plant-life was diverse, yet simple. Ivy wrapped its way around giant trees, red and purple berries hung from bushes, and even the occasional patch of flowers grew on the forest floor. “You can smell that, right?” Otis asked. His head was tilted up, nostrils flared. “Something’s burning.” A fresh breeze herded through a scent of burning wood and leaves, and Loric jolted upright. “We’re close.” His hand began to involuntarily brush the hilt of his sword. “Hey, quick question.” “What?” Otis’ voice was softer now. He was definitely on edge. “How are we supposed to bring these guys back alive?” Otis thought for a moment. “We ask them to come peacefully, and when they refuse, we knock them out and carry them back to Silver City.” He looked over to see the wimpy Loric with an eyebrow arched. “Oh, right,” he said. “I guess you’ll have to drag yours.” The wildlife of the forest was nothing unusual, nor was it incredibly dense. Still, Loric and Otis moved through the trees and brush slowly, their ability to move silently hampered by the silver armor and weapons they carried. Unlike Loric, Otis wore a silver buckler on his back, engraved with the image of a bull’s head. “How come you don’t have your buckler?” Otis whispered quietly. “It weighs me down. I can’t move as freely.” Loric took extra care to brush a large branch out of his way as quietly as possible. Otis grunted, neither in agreement nor in dissent. “I hope your Monkey Style works on thieves as well as it did on me.” He slid his shield off his back. “We’re here.” A steady stream of smoke poured from the mouth of a cave at the base of the mountain. A man in a black tunic and brown cloak leaned against the rock, absent-mindedly running a stone along the blade of his dagger. He looked young, probably early twenties, with reddish-brown hair and a prominent nose. A fresh scar ran down the length of his cheek. “That’s one,” Loric said. “Oye, Marcus,” the young man yelled, eyes never leaving the dagger. “Let’s get this show on the road already.” “Shut up,” growled a baritone voice from inside the cave. “We wait until nightfall. Then we’re out of this hell-hole.” “That’s two,” Otis said. “If the last one is in there, we have them with their backs to the wall.” “But why do you think they’ve waited two weeks?” Loric leaned forward and moved some branches out of his face. “What were they waiting for?” The two thought for a moment before Otis spoke. “The report said one of them was injured pretty badly: leg lacerated from knee to shin.” As if on cue, a tall man in grey clothing walked out of the foliage, about a hundred feet from Loric and Otis’ hideaway. He walked awkwardly, keeping his weight off of his left leg. “You’ve waited this long, what’s another couple of hours?” He patted the man in the black tunic’s shoulder and walked into the cave. “We’ll be in Iron City in a few days. Everything’s going to be fine.” “And that’s three,” Loric said. “Looks like luck’s on our side. If we had gotten here even a day later, they might have escaped.” The man in the black tunic pocketed his stone and put his dagger into its sheathe. “Marcus, if Talbot isn’t ready to go soon, I may have to put my dagger in his back.” He followed who Loric assumed was Talbot into the cave. “Shall we?” Otis asked. The pair emerged from the brush, stalking over to the mouth of the cave. Their silhouettes cast long, dark shadows over the three criminals, all of whom froze like a pickpocket caught with his hand in a purse. “What in the silver bullshit is this?” called out black-tunic. “In the name of the Silver Bulls, you are all under arrest,” Loric said, his voice elevated to just under a shout. “Please drop any weapons you are carrying and return the stolen statuette.” He thought he sounded appropriately authoritative. Neither Loric nor Otis could tell how long the silence lasted, but it seemed like hours. The only sound was the quiet cackling of the small fire that burned halfway into the cave. It was almost a relief when the three men opposite them broke out laughing. Almost. “Surrender?” the baritone man said between chuckles. “To a pair of Ko-Sai barely old enough to carry a sword? You’ve got some balls, I’ll give you that much.” Otis ground his teeth and managed to smile. “We would appreciate your cooperation,” he said as his katana slowly slid from its sheathe. “Of course, any resistance will be considered an act of violence against a Ko-Sai of the Silver Bulls.” The man in the black tunic chortled as he pulled his dagger free from his belt. “Sounds fair. Unfortunately, we happen to be connoisseurs of violence.” “I suppose you’re Marcus?” Loric asked, pointing to the man in the back of the cave. The man who had been in the cave this whole time raised his hand. “Guilty,” he said, smiling. Marcus was a large man who could easily have fit in with the Silver Bulls. He wore light brown pants and a white shirt, and a pair of worse-for-wear boots covered in dried mud. He had to have been around forty, and his face was covered in lines and wrinkles that can only come from a life of poverty and recklessness. “What’s it to you?” “You’re wanted for the murder of two guards at the estate you burglarized,” Loric replied. He pointed over to the grey man with the limp. “That makes you Talbot?” The limping man’s grin grew wider. “A fair assumption.” Everything was falling into place. “Okay,” Loric said, “where is the statue?” Suddenly, the world around Loric seemed to slow. Spots swam across his vision, and the once-distinct sounds in the cave were now distant and hazy. He ran his fingers along the back of his head. Blood. Loric looked at his fingers studiously, the meaning of the blood just barely escaping him. Then he collapsed, the world spinning around him as he could only stare upward. A new figure stepped over him, clutching a wooden club. He was not one of the three men in the cave. The man with the limp was smiling because he was not Talbot. There were four of them, not three. Then everything went dark. Loric awoke to the feeling of brush scratching against his face, and the back of his head scraping the dry earth. When he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Marcus clutching his right leg. He was dragging Loric through the forest. The second thing he noticed was that it was completely dark out. Night had overtaken day, and the sky was glittered with the light of stars that managed to peek through the treetops. He tried moving his extremities, all of which responded, though weakly. “Otis,” he managed to say. His mouth was dry and tasted like blood. “Where is he? “Oh, awake, are you?” Marcus responded. “That’s impressive. We didn’t think you’d be waking up anytime soon.” He let out a chortle. “Your partner’s back with my friends. He killed Talbot after you went down. Man was like a monster with a sword.” His head turned, his mouth twisted in an ugly sneer. “But you know as well as I do what happens to the man that fights three-on-one.” A vast coldness suddenly enveloped Loric. He was alone, at the mercy of a murderer, and his partner was probably dead. Nobody was going to help him. He was probably going to die. “Why am I still alive?” Loric asked. “Makes things easier for us in the long run,” the larger man replied as he pulled Loric along. “If your friends in the Silver Bulls find your partner dead from Ko-Sai weapon wounds, and you’ve mysteriously disappeared, they’ll start looking for you, too. “Worst case scenario: the heat on us dies a little.” Marcus remained quiet for the rest of dragging. It was because of this that Loric was able to hear the sound of the river growing louder and louder. His head slammed against a tree root as the pair reached the bank, and Marcus released his grip. He bent over Loric, grabbed him by his chest plate and upper leg, and began to swing him back and forth. “This armor’s pretty heavy,” he said, Loric swaying to and fro. “I’ll bet that you sink like a brick.” With one final heave, he hurled Loric through the air and into the center of the river. The coldness of the water was immediate, and if Loric hadn’t steeled himself during the toss, it would have sucked all of the air out of his lungs. Luckily, that same coldness sharpened his senses and focus. He sank fast, the surface becoming less and less clear as the seconds passed. Loric didn’t have enough energy left to swim his encumbered body back up to fresh air. What he needed was to lose his armor as quickly as possible. Loric fumbled with the various laces that kept his armor strapped to his body, finding several of them tied into a knot. His vision was starting to blur, and the ache in his chest was slowly growing as his lungs demanded more oxygen. Marcus, or one of the other thieves, had taken his katana and wakizashi, so he could not cut himself free. His lungs were screaming now, threatening to start breathing despite being underwater. Loric scrounged around the bottom of the river, looking for a rock sharp enough to cut his bonds. Ironically, he had never been so relieved in his life as when he sliced open the palm of his hand on a jagged rock. By this point, blackness had completely overtaken Loric’s peripherals. The sound of his heartbeat was unbearable, reverberating throughout his body. As he cut at the last lace of his breastplate, each thump of his heart tightened the pressure in his head and in his chest to where he thought he was going to explode. An enormous weight tumbled off of him as he struggled out of his breastplate, and though he still wore armor in various other places, he could wait no longer. He sprung up from the riverbed with what little power his legs had left and swam for all he was worth. It was not an incredibly deep river, but all the exertions of the day made the short swim into what seemed like an eternity. It was not until the darkness had completely overcome his vision, and all hope towards making it out alive was lost, did Loric exploded from the surface, his lungs instantly and painfully filling with air. Otis sat in the dirt; his arms were tied behind him and back resting on a large boulder in the cave. His face and body were testaments to the swift, brutal torture he had undergone in the past hour. The armor he once wore had been removed and tossed to the side. Katana, wakizashi and buckler were in the hands of the men that held him. His left eye was swollen shut, his nose broken, and two of his teeth lay at his feet. A myriad of cuts, bruises and punctures covered his body. But he was not dead yet. “I’m going to ask one more time,” the man in the black tunic said, whom he now knew was named Novak. “How many patrolmen do you bloody Ko-Sai have looking for us?” Otis said nothing. “You two knew we were still in the woods, even after two weeks. That means you all have been watching the borders, watching the roads, making sure we couldn’t have left.” He twirled his dagger in his hand, and then brought it down into Otis’ left thigh. Otis gasped in pain, but relaxed again when the dagger was pulled free. “It doesn’t matter how many there are,” he said, head hanging low and blood dripping from his lips. “You’ll be caught sooner or later.” Marcus chuckled from off to the side. “Not if they keep sending babies like you after us.” Otis looked up and caught eyes with Marcus. “Two guards,” he said. “Two guards, my partner, and me. Four people you’ve killed because of that statue.” He coughed and wheezed, the blood in his mouth starting to run into his airway. “I hope it’s worth it.” A rock the size of a grown man’s fist flew through the air and slammed into the side of Otis’ head, and a fresh splatter of blood coated the floor. “Five,” said Dolomer, the limping man in grey. His voice was a snarl of hate. “Don’t forget, you killed Talbot, too.” “Self-defense,” Otis said. His breathing was becoming more and more labored. “Not for profit.” Marcus walked over and knelt beside Otis. He pulled a golden figurine about the size of a large grapefruit out of his pocket. It was the likeness of a man. “This statue is worth more than you could earn in a lifetime.” He tugged the wakizashi that was formerly on Otis’ belt from his own, tracing the tip of the blade around Otis’ right eye. “Okay, here’s the deal,” he said nonchalantly. “You tell us about Silver City’s patrols, and we’ll leave you here. You’ll be in bad shape, but you’ll be alive, and maybe when you get your wits back you’ll be able to make it to the city.” The point of the weapon was held directly in front of his pupil. “You don’t, and I take your eye. Plain and simple.” Otis’ eyes closed. “The bull does not dodge. Others flee.” “You don’t really seem that frightening, all tied-up down there,” Novak said, eyeing Loric’s katana as he waved it around. Otis swallowed as Marcus pressed the blade onto his cheek, just beneath his eye. “Last chance,” Marcus said. “Tell us about the patrols.” “The bull does not slow.” He coughed blood. “Its foes are trampled underneath.” Marcus sighed, and thrust an inch of steel into Otis’ eye. The young man screamed as a pain like none he had experienced in his life took hold of his being. Mercifully, Marcus removed it quickly, the tip of the blade coated in crimson. “The bull does not fear,” Otis whimpered weakly. His head went limp. “The bull is feared,” finished the raspy, piercing voice of Loric Talarius. He stood in the cave entrance, dripping wet and eyes like a starved wolf’s. Three heads suddenly snapped to attention, disbelief painted on all of their faces. “Son of a bitch,” Dolomer stammered. “I thought you said this one was drowned?” Marcus laughed. “I guess he head a little more life in him.” Loric knelt down and grabbed Otis’ buckler, holding it in his left hand. He said nothing, as nothing more was left to be said. “He’s half-dead already,” Novak said. “I’ll take him.” He lunged forward, Loric’s katana aimed at its master’s head. It was hard for Loric to tell what was happening. The moment seemed surreal, and he found himself wondering if he’d never actually made it out of the river, if he was actually dead and this was some kind of final dream. Everything moved slower: Novak moved closer and closer, but at a snail’s pace. Water dripped from the cave ceiling, but took what felt like full seconds to hit the floor. Even his own breathing looked as if it were in slow motion, though he felt fine. It was focus. For the first time in his life, Loric’s mind was completely focused on the moment. Loric sidestepped just as the blade of his own katana slammed into the buckler he was holding. The swing parried off to the side, and his hand darted out and seized the hilt of his wakizashi, strapped to Novak’s waist. It slid free, and he thrust it back into Novak’s chest, piercing his heart. The man in the black tunic gasped, looked down in disbelief, and crumpled to the floor. The whole scene took less than three seconds. Loric leaned down and reclaimed his sword. He calmly whipped it about, getting the feel for it, his face a mask of stoicism. Marcus and Dolomer each started to stalk forward, Marcus carrying Otis’ katana, Dolomer a cutless. Loric twisted back and threw the buckler as hard as he could, smashing it into Dolomer’s bad leg. The man screamed in agony and fell to the ground, clutching his shin. And then it was just Loric and Marcus. “I have a proposition for you,” Marcus said. “Seeing as half of my group is now dead, how about you join up with us and we split the money from the statue three ways?” Loric said nothing. “Fine. Last mistake you’ll ever make.” Marcus leapt forward, Otis’ sword held overhead. He brought it down in a blur, cutting only air. Blood spurted from a deep cut in his neck, and he looked around for an explanation, eyes becoming glassy. Loric stood about a foot past him, his katana dripping in blood. Marcus fell to the ground, dead. The young Ko-Sai strode over to his partner and knelt in front of him. He brought his fingers to Otis’ neck, feeling for a pulse. There was none. He stood up and walked over to the Dolomer, who clutched his leg and looked up at Loric in horror. “Please, I’ll give you anything,” Dolomer said. “Don’t kill me.” Loric said nothing. The Next Day Loric remained silent as he knelt in front of Master Taros. The two were in his office at the dojo. After the incident in the cave, he tied Dolomer to the rock in place of Otis’ body, which he carried back to Silver City. Other Ko-Sai had since collected and arrested the last of the thieves. The past day had been a blur: the long trek back to the city, the questioning by his superiors, the telling of his story over and over. It was like one long, repetitive nightmare. “So just to clarify,” Taros growled, “You confronted the thieves, got thrown into a river, killed three of the men you were supposed to bring in alive, and allowed your partner to die?” “Yes, Master,” Loric said, numbly. He was far past the point of caring. Taros grunted. “You at least brought back the statuette?” “Yes, Master,” Loric said. He pulled the golden statuette out of his pocket. It was a golden statue of a man in a cloak holding a mace above his head. Loric turned it over in his hands, the bottom of the base engraved with the words, “Wandering Justice.” He handed it over to Taros, who snatched it away. Taros looked the statuette over, and grunted. “Loric Talarius, under normal circumstances, I would declare that you have failed your Rite.” He looked down at his pupil, his expression unusually somber. “However, considering that you were acting under faulty intelligence, it has been determined that you performed acceptably. I hereby grant you status as a Ko-Sai of the Silver Bulls.” Loric’s head snapped up to meet eyes with Taros. “Master, I can’t accept that.” Taros raised an eyebrow. “What would you prefer, Talarius?” The newly-appointed Ko-Sai thought for a moment. “I…” he trailed off. “I want to be punished, sir.” Loric’s eyes were red, tears threatening to fall. “I want to be held responsible for Otis’ death, and I want to suffer every bit as much as he did when he died.” He bowed his head, on the verge of sobbing. “I want to die.” The aging master stroked his horns-shaped beard and looked down at his student. “You’re a man now, Talarius. First lesson: you don’t always get what you want.” Loric walked down the twisting road, the sun still an hour away from setting. He was a Ko-Sai now. While his hopes for punishment were denied, he was at least allowed some penance. He was to inform Otis’ family of his demise. The Ranclaw estate was small, but well groomed. The house, home to Otis’ parents and younger sister, was a quaint, one-story building. A garden of flowers made a perimeter around the home, forming a moat of colors and petals. Their beauty never wavered, never lessened. At least, not until Loric’s shadow crept over. As he reached the front door and was about to knock, he paused. To say he was scared would not be the whole story. He had pulled himself out of a river and defended against three armed criminals, both of which were much more frightening than this. To say he was sad would not be the whole story. True enough, the pain of Otis’ death ate at him, and the thought of telling the story to his family felt like having a horse-sized boulder slowly lowered onto his body. No, what gave him pause was the reality of it all. Before, when he made mistakes, only he suffered for them. Now, things were more complicated. The reality was that his shortcomings had led to somebody else’s death. Four, to be exact, but that was beside the point. His hand rapped on the door softly, three times. The silence was excruciating. The pitter-patter of socked feet on wooden floors was faint, but audible. The door opened slowly, and the visage of the most beautiful young woman Loric had ever seen stood before him: Otis’ sister, Felicia. “May I help you?” she asked. She was a small girl, a good quarter-foot shorter than Loric. Her chestnut hair trailed down to her shoulder blades, fair enough to ensure that it would never be completely straight, as even a slight breeze would displace it. She wore a pale-blue dress that showed off her thin, but curvy, physique. Suddenly Loric’s tongue felt three sizes to larger for his mouth. What was he to say? “Are your parents home?” was all he could muster. The lovely girl nodded and led Loric into the home and down the main hallway. It was not lavish, but by no means was it lacking in taste. Paintings by nameless artists hung on the walls, generously spaced apart to make up for the lack of numbers. They were mostly landscapes or scenes of people enjoying nature. And, of course, the occasional visage of a bull. “Mother, father,” Felicia said as she and Loric entered the living room. “This is…” “Loric,” he said. “Loric Talarius.” Otis’ father, sitting next to his wife, set his cup down on the small coffee table. “Ah yes, the young boy who’s accompanying Otis on his Rite.” The middle-aged man’s eyes suddenly grew wide and his face pale. “Where is Otis?” Loric sat down and began the hardest story he ever had to tell. He told them everything that happened: Otis’ idea to search for the thieves by water, the surprise attack by Talbot, Otis’ courage in battle and in capture, and the eventual justice the thieves received. The only part he left out was the grisly torture the poor man suffered. Felicia’s face was already difficult enough to see, and her parents were not taking the news any better. When Loric finished the story, he quietly rose and exited the house, leaving the Ranclaw family to its grieving. It was not until he reached the end of the cobblestone path that led from the front door to the dirt road that Felicia’s voice reached his ears. “Please wait!” she shouted as she scampered down the path after him. Her hair whipped about in the air, which she promptly smoothed down with her hands. Felicia met his eyes, her own red from crying. “I… thank you for telling us what happened.” Her voice was strained. “And for avenging him.” “He was a brave man.” Loric put his hand on her shoulder. “It was an honor to have known him.” A strong gust of wind blew at Felicia’s back, carrying her hair forward and surrounding the pair with flower petals from the house’s garden and leaves form nearby trees. For that brief instant, she looked like a snow maiden from the old stories. Too beautiful to be human. Tears like melting snow. She embraced Loric in a hug so filled with sorrow and pain that he almost sank to his knees and wept with her. But there was something else in that hug, peeking through like a single star on a cloudy night. The love and pride in her older brother would always shine inside of her. After that, the two parted ways. Loric told her to call on him if she ever needed his help. It was the least he could do, he thought as he wandered back towards his own home. The shadow of the falcon passed over him as the great bird flew overhead; its call pierced through the silence that Loric had wandered into. He watched it make its way back to its home on the mountain, where the worst day of his young life had taken place. Loric Talarius steeled his heart and wiped his eyes as the sun set before him. He would carry the wound on his soul just as he carried the wounds on his body. Otis’ courage was now his courage, as he was now living for the both of them. He was a man, now. He was a Ko-Sai.